I’m reading a book a former editor gave me after I got promoted from a job I already quit from early this year. The book is “The City of Falling Angels” by John Berendt. I caught myself closing my eyes every five minutes as I try to read the book. I am not a book reader. I never was.
Which is quite a surprise and a shame since I insist on calling myself “a writer first, before I’m a journalist.” Reading is the writer’s exercise. It pumps up one’s irony and burns the poison of bad TV grammar. It introduces the creative writer to style, mood and character development. On top of that, reading, a hard bound book especially, makes one look smart. It’s the eyeglasses for the hands.
But I don’t read books. I never enjoyed it. Continue reading